Do NOT Mess with Dr Hooper
by felinefemme
Summary: Written because of this quote from finalproblem, "It's like this still is from an alternate universe where Sherlock is the sweet one and Molly is the pain in the ass" from tumblr ( So I'm gonna do a remix on this, and hope it all makes sense. Kinda. Sorta.
1. A Study in Pink

Title: "Do NOT Mess with Dr. Hooper"

Author: FelineFemme

Genre: Humor

Summary: Written because of this quote from finalproblem, "It's like this still is from an alternate universe where Sherlock is the sweet one and Molly is the pain in the ass" from tumblr ( post/42166084657/finalproblem-its-like-this-still-is-from-an). And honestly, the photo does make Molly look more like an uptight beeyotch while Sherlock seems relatively... normal. Amazing. So I'm gonna do a remix on this, and hope it all makes sense. Kinda. Sorta.

Also, much thanks to Ariane DeVere ( ?skip=10&tag=transcript) for her transcripts. They are as invaluable as Molly's ( . /) and John's ( . /) blogs. It's fun turning such a sweet, soft lady who has kittens (KITTENS!) on her blog into someone who's, well, more like me in temperament XP

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters (Arthur Conan Doyle does), nor the BBC series (cuz it's BBC's, as well as created by Steven Moffatt & Mark Gatiss). All I'm doing is playing with them & putting them back nicely. Mostly ;-D

Chapter 1: A Study in Pink remix

29 January.

It's been a long day at the morgue for Molly Hooper, especially with Franklin Mortimer literally dying on the job at 67, so here she is, staying an extra shift to cover for her late coworker. And of course, wouldn't you know it, "no good deed goes unpunished", as the saying goes. Her punishment happens to be the tall man in the dramatic clothes with the dramatic airs practically sailing into the room as she was wheeling Mortimer's body out to a uni lab class.

"Mr. Holmes, why are you here?" she sighed. "Aren't there other morgues you could haunt?"

Sherlock Holmes smiles, trying to be charming. Honestly. What he needs is a decent comb for that messy head, she thought, or maybe some product. "I need that body," he says, using a riding crop to point to the body bag. Wait, a riding crop? "A man's alibi depends on what bruises form on his body within twenty minutes."

Molly looked at the riding crop, then at the madman holding it. "No," she said, nonplussed.

"What?" Sherlock Holmes looked aghast, like nobody had ever refused him before. Well, nobody other than Molly Hooper, that is, and it seemed he forgot that bit every time he came down. "Why not?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Idiot. "Because he's needed elsewhere. And because you can't just hit bodies randomly and expect them to have bruising at the same time simply because it's caused by the same weapon. There are variables, you know, like age, health, gender, location of the bruising, blood circulation, even the force at which the victim was hit is a factor… or you _would_ know if you'd done your homework properly." She noticed the jab hit home when his lips thinned. "Some people bruise immediately, others take hours, and I'm guessing this body isn't even close to the victim in terms of age or health." And now only one eyebrow went up.

"You haven't let me see it yet, and you've no idea who victim was," Holmes tried again. "I'm sure it'll be of use."

She smiled, but it was a flat, meaningless smile. "I'm sure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be elsewhere." Molly pushed the gurney hard at his legs, forcing him to either move or be seriously injured.

He chose, instead, to put his hands on the opposite end of the gurney and plant his feet on the floor. Dammit, "Wait," Holmes said. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." He smiled winningly, as if somehow this time, she'd fall for it.

She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. He could be so obvious. A supposed genius like him, stooping to such tactics? Really. "Yes," she smiled back, and his smile and posture eased off a fraction into something like relief. "I'll have it with two creams, two sugars. Thanks!" And, using a move similar to the one she employs while shopping at the market, she twisted the conveyance sharply, jolting it out of Holmes' skinny hands and nearly tipping the body off, then barreled down the hallway without looking back. She could hear him start to chase after her, but this was St. Bart's and she knew it like the back of her hand, especially where the closest loading elevator was.

With some relief, she hit the "close" button, and started going up to the sixth floor. She sighed, and leaned against the wall. Then she looked down at the body bag. "You still manage to be a troublemaker, Franklin, dead or alive," she shook her head. He was one of her few coworkers she could stand to be around, and now there was one less. Bother.

She decided to use the restroom and freshen up a bit, since she'd barely had a break in her double-shift. Maybe I'll get some coffee, she thought hopefully as she reapplied her lipstick, hm, perhaps I should go to the Criterion and get a bite to eat as well. With that happy thought, she smoothed her hair out, smiled briskly at her reflection, and went back down to the morgue to sign off for a break.

There was a body in the morgue with suspicious red welts on its back when she returned. That idiot went and stole one of the bodies out for himself! No papers, no authorization, nothing! She searched for the paperwork for this particular body, and when she found it, she sighed with relief. Thankfully, Holmes had picked a John Doe, but that still didn't excuse his cavalier attitude towards her position, the morgue, and the property of St. Bart's. Then she spotted the riding crop in the sink, and smiled. So, that stupid, narcissistic fake detective is going to ruin _my_ job to prove _his_ point? she thought. Molly picked up the crop, sniffed it and found it was sanitized, which mollified her, just a little. Oh, and less worry about flying epithelials as she cracked it on his head. Excellent.

She knew where that idiot would be, because, aside from the morgue, his other usual hangout at St. Bart's involved appropriating the computer and medical equipment. "Sherlock Holmes!" she banged into the lab, riding crop in hand.

Who she found in there, however, wasn't just Holmes, who dropped the mobile phone in his hands, but some blonde man with a walking cane next to him, who fortunately caught said phone. Mike Stamford, one of the professors, was sitting there as well. He was a friendly sort who, unfortunately, was even friendly to Holmes, and. Too many witnesses if she were to properly beat the man, Molly thought despairingly, too bad for her, lucky for him. So she settled for glaring at him.

"Ah, Miss Hooper," he smiled, "you're wearing lipstick."

She didn't bother wasting her time rolling her eyes at him. "Obviously," she said in a too-patient voice, "women do that. And it's _Doctor_ Hooper, remember?" Just because he was doing something without a proper label didn't mean others didn't have one. Hm, might have to add "misogynist" to the list of negatives, she thought.

"Ah, yes, of course," he colored, then sped to the other side of the lab table and gave her a cup of coffee, but the return trip had him on Molly's side, not on the stranger's. From the smell, it was probably from the cafeteria. Ugh. "Your coffee, Molly." The way he said it, it was like he was handing her the Holy Grail.

She wasn't going to refuse the caffeine, because God knew she needed it. Yes, it was definitely the cafeteria coffee sludge, in spite of the added cream and sugar, and yes, she was definitely going to the Criterion for some decent coffee and a meal after this. "You owe me more than that," she said evenly, "you owe me an apology and perhaps a few broken bones." When he paled at that, she smiled, "I'll take the apology, for now. And a word of warning, I'm reinstating the locks on the morgue. I know it'll only take you perhaps ten minutes longer to crack, but that's ten minutes more that New Scotland Yard will have to arrest you for breaking in. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," he sighed. "I'm sorry, Molly," he said, although it was clear to everyone in the room he was more sorry he was caught and reprimanded than for his initial crime. "I promise to bring proper authorities next time."

She raised an eyebrow. "Next time? Aren't there other morgues you could plague?"

Rather than answer her, he sidestepped the question by introducing the sandy-haired man. "John here is also a doctor," Holmes said, putting John between them, seemingly achieving the feat of making it look polite rather than him hiding behind a man with a walking cane. "Dr. Watson, meet Dr. Hooper."

"Nice to meet you," she said, pasting on a smile as she held out her hand.

"Likewise," Dr. Watson said, his grip firm as his expression. "How do you know each other?"

"We don't," she said bluntly, "and I hope we never do."

He blinked in surprise, his expression shifting into something of a bland acceptance. "Ah, all right, then," he said.

She shook her head, then headed out the door. "When I come back from break, you should all be out of here," she said, "including you, Mike." Stamford waved at her with a weak smile, then she swept out the door.

It's too bad she doesn't indulge in vices, because she could use a smoke or a drink right about now. Instead, she heads over to the bus station, because she needs to get some decent coffee, some food in her stomach, and plenty of distance between herself and that idiot.


	2. The Blind Baker

Looked over my entry from yesterday... should've double-checked for the links. So, here we go again:

tumblr prompt: post/42166084657/finalproblem-its-like-this-still-is-from-an

Ariane DeVere's "Sherlock" transcripts: ?skip=10&tag=transcript

Molly Hooper's blog: . /

John Watson's blog: . /

25 March.

Caroline left, so there's even less people working at the morgue. At least she's not dead, Molly Hooper thought to herself, but they still haven't replaced Franklin's position. It was another long day, but this time, because they were two down, everyone was affected, so it wasn't just Molly's burden to bear.

However, things were looking up, aside from not having to hear about Caroline's bloody hedge any more. She'd gotten a cat last month and named him Obit, for "obituary". Meena thought she was a little mad, but it was actually quite funny that the cat responded to the name. She'd replied to Meena's comment that she chose the lesser of two evils, since there was no way that she was getting a gay best friend, which was Meena's other option for her in terms of company. Too much drama.

She went to the canteen and stared at the menu items in a sort of daze. It had been a long day, but she desperately needed to eat. Then a familiar voice brought her back to earth, unfortunately. "What are you thinking: pork or pasta?"

She started, and then sighed. "Sherlock Holmes. Just when I thought this place would be free from your presence."

The tall man smiled pleasantly at her. It only made her wish the riding crop was in her hand and not in her office. "Oh, don't be like that. Hm, this place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" he said, trying to start conversation with her. Then he nodded at the food. "I'd stick with the past. Don't wanna be doing roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers."

She smiled back, stabbing her fork into the pork slices. "Actually, pork is exactly what I need to keep up my strength so I can slice up more," and her smile turned nasty, staring right at him as she stabbed another slice, "cadavers."

He swallowed hard. "Well, then. Wouldn't want you fainting on the job. Speaking of your job, I hear you have Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis on your list," he said, a weaker version of a smile returning to his face.

Ah, that's it, she thought, finally getting to the point. "Yes, I sent the notes to Detective Inspector Dimmock. He should be receiving them sometime soon, if he checks his e-mail. Their paperwork's already gone through," she said briskly, moving away.

But he stepped in front of her, and she had to stop or waste her meal on his scarf. "You've changed your hair," he said, trying another tactic.

"Move, or this gets on your precious clothes," Molly glared.

He didn't seem too bothered by that, still standing in front of her. "It's usually parted in the middle, but it's good now, it suits you better this way," he smiled, as if he was flattering her.

She stared up at him. "Perhaps you should be Meena's gay best friend," she said, instead of saying that was the stupidest comment she'd heard on her hairstyle, which was borne out of the necessity of dealing with the tumescent bodies of drowned victims.

"What?" he blinked. Not quite the reaction he was hoping for, apparently.

Molly then kicked him in the shins, and he gasped and grabbed his leg. "Get me a warrant or some kind of papers, or even Dimmock, and you can see those bodies," she said as he limped away from her.

Unfortunately, Holmes managed to get the paperwork through, and Dimmock called her, requesting to see the bodies. Dammit, she thought, but dutifully wheeled out said bodies, and set them up in the morgue for viewing. When Holmes came in, giving Molly a wide berth, as he was still limping a bit, followed by the brisk Dimmock, Molly merely pursed her lips before adjusting the latex gloves. "Which one first?"

"Doesn't matter," Holmes shrugged.

Prat, Molly thought, and unzipped Lukis' body bag, not from the head up, as usual, but from the feet. "I expect you were looking for these," she said, pointing at the tattoos.

"Yes, how did you know?" the not-detective stared at her.

She rolled her eyes. "If either of you had bothered to read the notes before coming down, you would've seen that I'd noted and attached pictures of the tattoos to the report, probably related to the Tongs, on both men's feet. It's not every day you see the same tattoo in a non-conspicuous and rather painful place. Well, aside from the crotch, that is, but those tend to be more bold and distinct rather than this simple design." Both men looked a little queasy when she gestured toward the mentioned area. Too easy, she thought. "Is there anything else?"

"No," Dimmock answered, then turned to Holmes. "But you knew these tattoos would be there before seeing them here."

Holmes nodded. "Like Dr. Hooper said, these tattoos are of Tong origin, and I hope that now, you'd take me seriously."

"That would be a first," Molly muttered, zipping the body bags up again. So glad you concur with my analysis of the tattoos, you dimwit, she fumed inwardly, it's part of my job! But Dimmock and Holmes were already heading out, and now she rolled her eyes as they continued their heated conversation.

For her part, she chose to tune them out. Honestly, if they can't be bothered to check their e-mail on something that was apparently case-related, why even bother to send them anything? she thought, putting the bodies back into storage. No wonder New Scotland Yard's relying on weirdoes like Sherlock Holmes.

So Molly washed up, then decided to vent on her blog about bloomin' idiots invading her workplace. And to her surprise, she got an e-mail from some new guy in IT. She smiled, then continued to chat with him until he asked her out for coffee. She frowned, then shrugged. Why not, she thought, can't be any worse than the dead men hanging out in the room now.

She left the morgue with something of a spring in her step, thankful to chat with someone who seemed to have a brain in his head at this time of night.


	3. The Great Game

30 March.

"I think we're going to have to put locks on the labs as well," Molly Hooper sighed when she walked into the lab with a report. "What on earth are you two doing here?"

Sherlock Holmes was smiling at the computer monitor, the smile fading a little as he sees Molly. "Trying to save a woman's life," he said simply.

She looked at the sandy-haired man, now without his walking cane, who merely nods. "I don't suppose either of you have any papers or a proper pass for use of the lab, do you?" Sherlock, who'd gone back to staring down into a microscope, looked up and smiled sheepishly. "Right," she sighed. "Fine. I'll be calling Lestrade, then."

As she pulled out her phone, a man in typical computer nerd-wear, thick glasses included, strides into the room. "There you are, Molly," he said, smiling briefly.

She looks up and stops dialing. "Hullo, Jim," she smiled back.

"Thought I'd interrupt your work for a bite," he said, "are these two new?"

She shook her head. "No, they're freelancers. Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," she waved carelessly at them. "Jim, have a seat, I won't be long." She shoved Holmes over, making both the not-detective and the would-be doctor somewhat disgruntled, but she didn't care. After all, she's got a job here, and one that pays her bills. She's _not_ being paid to babysit these men. Automatically, she saved whatever the hell Holmes was working on, then opened a new window and logged into the system. Then she flipped open the manila folder and started typing the results of her latest autopsy, a literal cut-and-dried case that would put her off of beef jerky for a while.

Her boyfriend, for his part, perched on a stool next to her, typing away on his phone. "Shall we try a new place, or should we head to the Fox?" he said, pausing in his typing.

Molly didn't look up or stop typing. "Mm, probably the Fox for dinner. I want something light for lunch."

"All right," he smiled, and resumed his own thumb-typing on a much smaller keyboard.

"Hang on, new boyfriend?" Dr. Watson said out of nowhere.

"No, evil twin brother," Molly replied sarcastically, connecting her mobile phone to the computer and uploading the photos.

"Well, that makes sense," Sherlock murmured.

"For freelancers, they're awfully familiar, aren't they?" Jim frowned at Molly.

She sighed, then disconnected her phone and logged out. "Don't worry about them. They're harmless. Stupid, but harmless," she said as she stood, ignoring the insulted glares from both men.

But her boyfriend frowned at Holmes and Watson. "I don't know," he said, "does this hospital always let any sort just wander in and use the equipment?" Then his large dark eyes narrowed further. "Holmes. That's the one who keeps barging in here?"

There's a large part of her that's gratified that she's not the only one who's ticked off by the freelancer's flaunting authority. "Yes, that's the one," she said.

Then he smirked. "Like you said, not much too him except for hair and clothes. Hope he knows what he's doing with a microscope."

"Oi!" Watson glared at him. Looks like Holmes has a loyal pet, Molly thought to herself.

But Jim shook his head. "Not sure what kind of doctor you are, but I'm guessing you're about as reputable as your mate there." Watson started towards him, but Holmes shook his head.

"That's why I love you," Molly laughed and linked her arm in his. "Come on, Jim, let's have lunch before I spoil my appetite."

He smiled and kissed her. "All right then," he said, and they walked out. As they went down the hallway, he raised an eyebrow. "Evil twin brother, eh? Won't that make us incestuous, then?" And he waggled both eyebrows for effect.

She snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. If anything, you should be flattered you're considered the evil one, since I'm apparently the wicked witch at work."

"Alliteration, nice," Jim smiled, "and that's why I love you."

She couldn't help but smile back. They ended up having Chinese at a tiny restaurant, and Jim made her laugh with his insulting impressions of the various passersby. Their lunch break was over too soon, and she found herself wishing her shift was already over so they could go on to dinner. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it, but the minutes dragged on for what seemed like hours, and by dinner time, Jim escaped from IT to take her out to the Fox. It was more than a little busy, of course, but Jim somehow had connections, and they got themselves seated with decent service, to boot. The meal was amazing, as always, Molly swore that she'd get fat on the incredible restaurant food they were eating as they were dating. Jim always said he liked his women with curves, not angles, so she felt a bit better. He had other things going for him, like he always picked up the tab, he was incredibly smart, he had his own place, he didn't smoke, and he was great at snogging. And she's always had a thing for a man in glasses. That night, however, he drops her off at home, and kisses her on her doorstep. "Good night, Molly Hooper."

"Good night, Jim Moriarty," she said, brushing his long bangs out of his eyes.

The next morning, Jim texts her: "Thinking of you. Will be busy today. Don't wait up."

"I won't," she texts back. "Thinking of you, too."

But that's actually the last time she thinks about him, because her day is swamped, trying to fend off paparazzi and other vultures from the latest body to transfer to St. Bart's: Connie Prince. Thankfully, the morgue locks are in place, but she's too busy dealing with administration and security to ensure proper precautions, that any thoughts of Jim fly out the window. Then she hears from Meena that Lestrade brought Holmes and Watson in to examine Connie Prince's body, and she wants to tear her hair out. Molly does, not Meena or Connie Prince.

It's at that point that she picks up her phone to call Jim, but thinks better of it. After all, she hates it when people call her while she's busy, so she's fairly sure he's the same. Especially with how impatient they both are with the stupidity of people and all that. She sighed, then shrugged. "Fine, I'm not waiting," she told her phone, and put it away. She ended up going out with some of the office girls, although she felt the odd out, being the oldest in the party, and ended up drinking far too much to cover her awkwardness.

The awkwardness was not relieved by the incredible hangover she had the next morning, and she spent longer than she wanted trying to recover from said hangover. On top of that, there were a dozen elderly bodies waiting to be processed when she staggered into the morgue, one of which seemed to bear witness to being ground zero. Initial report said "gas leak", but as she went through each and every one of them, she could tell whoever made that report was an idiot. Hangover or not, there was no way the smell from these bodies, as well as victim zero, indicated such a ridiculous notion, and she found herself imbibing the sports drinks from the vending machine in order to counterbalance her queasiness.

She'd finally made it to a lunch break, but she only had time to down the canteen coffee sludge and a pathetic sandwich when she was called in for a supposed drown victim. It seemed Lestrade and Holmes had already gone through it, and she sighed at the loss of pertinent information. Still, she does her job, and then some, when Meena called in to beg off, having a worse hangover than herself. Molly had rolled her eyes, but agreed, then took a short break to go down to the IT department. Hang his "busy"-ness, she was going to see her boyfriend, especially if it was going to be another long day.

Oddly enough, he was nowhere to be found, and his boss said he hadn't shown up for work since yesterday. Molly frowned. Something's very wrong here, but she wasn't about to panic just yet. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," she said.

"Perhaps," the hefty man shrugged, "but if there is, Jim never gave one. Good thing he was only a temp worker, but he was a damn good one. Never seen anyone pick up the system so quick."

She nodded. "That sounds like him. Well, if he shows up, let me know," she smiled briefly, and he nodded back.

The rest of the day was boring after that, finishing up reports on the twelve elderlies, plus the hefty waterlogged vic, which she found were connected to each other, as well as Connie Prince and even the odd-looking trainers left at the lab, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, she wasn't surprised. They could put a dead sherpa, a wad of chewing gum, and the prime minister's toupee in front of Holmes and he'd somehow connect them in some mad fashion. But she was tapping her foot by 8 P.M. and started to go a little mad half an hour after that. Molly ended up going out to a nearby restaurant, simply because she was bored and hungry, and yes, hoping for a glimpse of her boyfriend. What kind of man leaves his job and girl without a word? she thought to herself, and pursed her lips. She pulled out her phone and texted: "Where the hell are you? Skipped out on work and me. It's not like you."

She hit "send", and frowned. Then again, what did she really know about him? It's only been, what, five days, and all she knows about him personally is superficial. She knows nothing about his family, or previous jobs, or previous girls, for that matter. Then she gets a call from St. Bart's that another body's come in, an elderly woman, choked to death. "Well, good job that I'm done with dinner," she murmured, and picked up her jacket. The next comment had her running back to work, because they said it had something to do with Holmes.

Dammit, she thought, working off whatever calories she might've picked up, it figures that idiot would raise the body count!

It's that heady combination of anger and indignation that takes her through the rest of the night, then into a cab, and finally collapsing in her bed. And then, for the first time since she met Jim Moriarty, she sleeps a dreamless sleep.


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia

Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia

April 1.

Molly Hooper woke up to the sounds of someone hitting her doorbell repeatedly, making her want to do the same to the visitor. For better or worse, she'd gone to bed in her work clothes, minus the lab coat, and she answered the door fully clothed, but with a vicious case of bedhead and sore attitude. "What?" she glared dully at the men.

For it wasn't just one visitor, but three. D.I. Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson. The Un-wise Men, she supposed, or perhaps, more accurately, the Three Stooges. "Are you all right?" Lestrade asked.

"I was, until you woke me up at 5 A.M. on my day off," she retorted. She smothered a yawn with her right hand. "Fine, come in," she sighed, and let them into her flat. "What's this about?"

"It's about your, um, boyfriend," Lestrade says, but now his eyes are looking at anywhere but her.

She stared at him, then at the other two men. They looked like they'd gone through the wringer, and that was putting it gently. "What happened? Is he dead?"

"I wish," Watson surprised her with his vehemence, and she frowned. "You might want to sit down, Dr. Hooper."

She looked at each of them, not trusting where this was going. "All right," she said finally, and sat down on the chair. Obit started to come out of her bedroom, saw there was unfamiliar company, and ran back into her bedroom. She wished she had the same option as her black cat, but instead, she faced them. "What's going on with Jim?"

Lestrade sat on the couch near her, while Watson sat on the other end and Holmes leaned against the side where Watson was sitting, that is, as far away from her as possible. "Miss Hooper, this might be a bit much for you to take in, but it seems your boyfriend's real job was planning crimes," Lestrade said, in a tone that said he almost didn't believe it himself. "We've been going around the past couple of days chasing after him, and the people he'd strapped Semtex vests to, only to find it was just a game of cat and mouse between him and Sherlock here."

_"What?"_ Molly stared at the curly-headed man. "You must be joking. He might be a right bastard, but he wouldn't-"

"When was the last time you've seen him?" Lestrade interrupted her.

"Um," she frowned, forcing her mind to think beyond the deadly combination of shock and sleep-deprivation, which she hadn't done since med school, really. "About two nights ago. We had dinner at the Fox."

Holmes and Watson looked at each other, while Lestrade's forehead wrinkled. "Any communication since then?"

She frowned again. "He texted me, said he was busy yesterday morning. He didn't show up to work, either." Then she looked at Lestrade hard. "That looks bad, doesn't it?" she added.

"No worse than what he's already done." Lestrade said. Then he glanced at Holmes, who looked away. "So he kept out of sight after the initial 'greeting', smart of him."

Molly stared at them again. "You're really serious," she said slowly, "you think Jim's some kind of evil mastermind…" She laughed in spite of the stark allegations. "Are you sure not just having me on, getting back at me for being a rude bitch?"

"Trust me, having an explosives-laden vest strapped on wasn't a joke, or the laser sights from various snipers on my chest," Watson said tightly, the wrinkles in his face deepening. "And it was no joke for the others who were similarly held hostage. Or for the victims whose deaths he'd planned on behalf of others." His face, his voice, was nothing but sincerely shaken, angry, and yes, even a little scared, but in front of all that, he was sincere.

This is mad, Molly thought, utterly, truly mad. This is a world where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the heroes, and Jim Moriarty is – "Are you saying Jim Moriarty was behind the bodies I had to process for the past couple of days?" she said, her face paling.

"He told you his full name," Holmes said, but it wasn't his usual gentle or wheedling tone, but sharp, sarcastic. "And yet, you're still alive. He probably thought you weren't worth his time to play with."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in a warning undertone.

"No," the dramatic man strode over to face Molly head-on, "he thought it was amusing to insinuate himself into your life, only to taunt me in passing. I wouldn't have paid attention to it, because I'm usually mocked anyways." Molly didn't give him the satisfaction of blushing or turning away, but faced him evenly. "He counted on me ignoring him for that, counted on being 'too obvious', and when he showed his true colors last night, showing up personally after kidnapping John and holding him hostage, then I realized how absolutely clever he was to have played us all. Yes, all of us, including a certain pathologist with misadryst tendencies, an unforgiving and defensive attitude, and a martyr's belief that she isn't appreciated for her intelligence and competence because of her plain appearance and weaker gender." Then he leaned into her space, but she still wouldn't look away. "If I knew that within the first five seconds of meeting you, then Moriarty would've known how to manipulate you within a minute after reading your blog. I'm afraid he didn't even mention you when he confronted us as himself, although he did take great pride in flaunting his false identity."

She felt as if he'd torn whatever pride she had to shreds, but she refused to break down in front of them. Lifting her chin, she said, "Knew that charming bit was all an act. Must make you feel good to let loose, then."

He stood up, glaring down at her. "You are the stupidest woman-!" he began.

"We didn't want you to see this on the news," Lestrade broke in as he dragged Holmes away, "we thought you should know personally." Now Holmes glared at him, but Lestrade only looked tired.

Right. Fine, she thought to herself. Then she stood up, surprising them all. "I wish Jim had the balls to break up with me in person," she said, steel entering her voice, "so I could break each and every one of his bones." She brushed her hair away from her face. "Perhaps I should be thankful that he never cared about me in the first place, or I would've been a pawn with an explosive vest, too."

"If you want, we can put a guard out for you," Lestrade started, but she waved him off.

"Apparently, he's done for now, judging by the fact that you are all still alive," she said. "Besides, there's nothing for him here to hold his interest, if what you say is true."

"Miss Hooper," Watson said, looking pained.

"Oh please, I know you all dislike me, stop trying to be nice to me now," she glared. "Now get out before I use the kitchen knives on you."

The D.I.'s eyebrows rose, but they all filed out of there quietly. Well, mostly quiet, for she could hear Lestrade's voice from the hall before the door closed, "They were almost meant for each other, huh?"

As soon as the door shut firmly, she put a fist to her mouth, tears spilling down her face. Then she started swearing, ignoring her nose joining her eyes in waterworks, and started pulling out cups and smashing them against the tile. Over and over, she smashed them, until she was out of cups, and she moved on to the plates. "I hate you," she cried, "I hate you, God, I HATE YOU SO MUCH!" But she's not sure who she hates most, Jim, or the men who just left, or herself.

When she came back April 2, the pitying looks from her coworkers made her snap rather than cry, so they stopped and went back to their usual resentful or bored looks. Lestrade attempted to check up on her every so often, but she practically bit his head off and taunted his marriage on top of it, which made him back off. She bought replacement cups and plates from the market, but noticeably less in quantity than before. And by June, the morgue had finally gotten a replacement for both Franklin and Caroline, but only one of them was marginally competent in her eyes. So far, everything had returned to normal, and she was thankful that there were no further surprise visits from either Holmes or Watson, or at least, they came over when she wasn't on duty, which was something of a relief.

Other things had changed, however. She enrolled in martial arts classes rather than anger management, and when she learned that she couldn't beat up anyone straight off, but had to re-learn things like patience and practice, she nearly lost her patience. Molly gave it time, due to her stubbornness, so by the time they'd gotten around to sparring with partners, her body had become more toned, but her attitude had relaxed, so nobody got seriously injured. She surprised herself by staying on, partly because she actually enjoyed this form of exercise, and partly because of Daniel, a cute bank manager originally from Australia, who was flirty with her off the mat.

She'd also bought a small, cheap digital camera, but after trying to take artsy photos of various subjects, she gave up and just started taking pictures of the sky. Somehow, that relaxed her more than anything, and she didn't care if she looked like a nutter, whether it was the usual London grey sky or an unusual blue, Molly's camera pointed upwards. Occasionally, she'd catch a jet or a bird in the shot, but it didn't matter. It wasn't the result that she was after, since she deleted all the photos by the end of the day, but just the act of looking up. "Perhaps I'm getting too bloody Zen for my own good," she murmured.

And having Obit around was good for her, too, even though Meena would teasingly threaten her with a gay best friend. Molly had retorted she had no need, since Meena was more than enough of a drama queen to qualify. Besides, her cat reminded her, aside from Daniel, that every so often, that physical touch could be relaxing and gratifying. And Obit was rather loud and playful for a cat, so she didn't have to guess if he was hungry or happy or bored. "It's too bad people aren't like cats," Molly murmured to Obit one night after a particularly trying shift, "you can verbalize without using words. People use words and aren't clear at all."

In December, she ignores an invite to a Christmas party at Holmes and Watson's flat from Lestrade. It was an odd invitation in the first place, since she'd almost forgotten about them, not really having seen them since April. Then there's the fact that she's too busy with arranging a work party with Meena for that same time, as well as seeing Daniel every chance she got. Unfortunately, he planned to go back home for the holidays, which was entirely understandable, but it would make the season extremely boring. And because the work party was on Christmas Day, nobody could escape working there, which was Molly's intention.

And that's when she found herself opening the morgue on Christmas night to a government official so high up, his clearance practically opened the hospital doors before him. Unfortunately, Mr. Mycroft Holmes happened to bring his younger brother Sherlock in with him to identify a woman's body. The Jane Doe had come in earlier that day, a victim of such a savage beating to the face that she was barely recognizable, and Molly surprised herself by inwardly wishing Sherlock luck with that. She thought it was odd, however, that the rest of the woman was untouched, especially with a body like that. And she thought it even odder when Sherlock asked, "Please, show me the rest of her," after she'd pulled the sheet down to reveal the hamburger that was the woman's face.

After she did so, he scanned the body, almost absently, with his eyes, then turned to walk away. "That's her," he said.

"Thank you, Dr. Hooper," the elder Holmes said.

Molly nodded as she re-covered the body. "He actually loved her, didn't he," she said flatly.

The balding man raised his eyebrows. "Interesting observation coming from you," he remarked as he walked out.

Molly was about to retort, but for once, held her tongue, since he held a sinister edge behind that seemingly benign expression. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, thankful that she didn't have to deal with the ID of the drug overdose in the room down the corridor, that was just too emotional, as opposed to seeing the detached Holmes brothers. Speaking of which… She looked down at the Jane Doe, a thoughtful frown on her face.

Of course, now that her streak of going Holmes-less has been broken by two Holmes brothers after eight months, she ends up seeing him again on New Year's Day. "Your girlfriend is as demented as you are," she said when she saw him in the lab x-raying an extremely expensive phone.

"What do you mean?" he said, sounding both distracted and focused in his usual mad fashion, staring at the computer screen.

She shook her head. "I took the liberty of autopsying the Jane Doe, since it brought the attention of not one, but two Holmses," she said, and she was a little gratified to see that he looked away from the computer and at her in alarm. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that some idiot messed with the paperwork, probably deliberately, to make Jane Doe seem as much like this Irene Adler is supposed to be." She shrugged. "Like I said, your girlfriend must be demented if she has someone else's head bashed in for her sake, or leaving her pricey phone with you only to have it x-rayed. You must really enjoy your little games."

He frowned at her. "She's not my-"

Molly waved him off. He must be the idiotic genius in the world, she thought. "Of _course_ she's your girlfriend, or at the very least, you're acting like a besotted boy. People in love do stupid things, including flirting badly and obviously. In her case, badly, and in your case, obviously." Her eyebrows rose of their own accord when she saw there were explosives in the phone, but felt that was too obvious to remark upon, as he'd been staring at them for the past however many minutes.

He pouted further, and Molly was this close to losing her recently-acquired Zen cool, when his eyes shot wide open. "She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games!" He grabbed the phone out of the x-ray machine and started typing something she couldn't see, but could hear as four characters long. It must've been the wrong thing, because there was a warning beep and his face fell accordingly, followed by his bottom back onto the seat.

Molly rolled her eyes, then walked out. "If there's another body with its face bashed in, I hope it looks like yours," she shot over her shoulder. In fit of pique, however, she sends him back the riding crop as a belated Christmas gift, and sends his flatmate a roll of duct tape. She's got a feeling the latter might need it more than he lets on. And then she booked a trip to Australia, because she needs to go on holiday herself.


	5. The Reichenbach Fall

**Author's note: I really, really ****_didn't_**** want to write this. For one, it would be like reliving the last ep, which makes me cry even at work. For another, it would be wrapping up this little fic. And last, I really, really didn't want to try & figure out how the hell Sherlock did what he did, or attempt my own lame version. But I ended up doing all of the above, so thanks for patiently waiting for this bit & for all the encouraging and insane reviews! It made losing sleep worth it! :D**

Chapter 5: The Reichenbach Fall

1 June.

Things have been quiet I the morgue, at least in terms of Holmes and Watson sightings. Then in March, there was a Moriarty sighting, at least on the news. Molly had held her breath, wondering if he'd show up like a bad penny, but thankfully, she was below his radar. After all, she'd only just gotten over Daniel, who broke her heart after the holidays when she learned not only was Australia his home, but that his family (that is, wife and children) were there, too. For once, she refrained from blowing up immediately, but instead, put a note into Daniel's wife's hand the day she left, telling her everything. After all, _she_ didn't have to be the one to blow up, that could be the wifey's job, should she stay with that prick.

So there she was, reading the papers on Moriarty's (she couldn't call him "Jim" any more, that was too familiar for a man she didn't want to be familiar with) trial, and then they let him go. She almost had a heart attack when she read that. She knew he did something unspeakable, something horrible, to persuade the jury to free him from serving time for crimes he obviously committed. After all, that showy three-ring circus he'd put on was to prove he could do it, right? And the fact that he was declared "not guilty" only underlined it. Molly narrowed her large brown eyes. "Holmes," she muttered. "Dammit. It's Holmes all over again."

So she wasn't surprised when Holmes and Watson greet her as she was leaving for a semi-optimistic lunch date. "Molly," Holmes said with a smile that didn't quite reach his ice blue eyes.

"Leaving for a lunch date," she said boldly, attempting to dodge his hands grasping for her shoulders.

"Cancel it," he said as Watson corralled her towards the taller man like a sheepdog herding a recalcitrant sheep towards a wolf. "You're having lunch with me." He reached in to his coat pocket and dramatically pulled out a packet of Quavers crisps.

She laughed out loud, she couldn't help it. "That's not even real food," she grumbled.

He made a face, seemingly insulted and shoved the packet back into his pocket. "Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends, we're trying to track him down." While they were talking, he and his blonde-ish friend are walking her back towards the way she came. "He's been a bit naughty."

Molly's eyes automatically scanned the corridor, even as her face turned towards him. "Please don't call him that. I don't want people to associate him with me ever again."

Holmes sighed, a gusty dramatic wind flying from his chest. Jeez. "Yes, and for the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He leaned in and murmured in an undertone, "I read about what you did in Australia. Nice work." As she paled, he tossed the crisps at her, which she caught automatically, and he and his pet walked through the fire door.

So yes, he blackmailed her into helping them run lab tests on samples they'd gotten from who knows where. He could've just asked me, she thought resentfully as she brought in loads of data books, but then again, she would've firmly if not politely declined, so she supposed he used the only viable option. Interesting. She caught him muttering about oil, and an hour later, he ordered, "I need that analysis."

Hold on to your knickers, she wanted to chide him, but Watson, rather than Holmes, had impressed upon her the urgency of their lab work. She squeezed the liquid sample into a glass dish and applied the litmus paper to it. When the paper turned blue, she reported, "Alkaline."

"Thank you, John," he said automatically.

She raised her eyebrows. That was interesting. "Molly," she corrected him firmly.

"Ah, yes," he blinked, then went back to making notes on the sample findings. So, Watson was more than a pet, she thought. How on earth did that happen? Some time later, he murmured, "I owe you." Before she could ask what the hell that was about, he said clearly, "Glycerol molecule." He sighed, "What are you?"

"What did you mean 'I owe you'?" Molly asked, curious. Holmes, rather than answer her immediately, instead looked up from his microscope and tracked Watson as he made his way across the lab. She said, "Sherlock." He turned to her, partly out of shock that she'd use his first name, and partly because it seems he automatically seemed to respond to his first name being used. Hm. "You said 'I owe you' while you were working."

He hunched over the microscope again. Nice try, she thought, but you can't hide. "Nothing," he murmured, "mental note."

She shook her head, ready to grab the microscope away and stare for herself, when something occurred to her. "You're a bit like my dad," she said, "he's dead."

"Molly, I hope you mean to say your father was incredibly brilliant and charming," Holmes said to the microscope, "because I'm currently alive."

She quirked one side of her mouth. In a way, she was glad she ditched her lunch date, since he seemed boring compared to all this. There was a 50-50 chance that he would've turned out all right, but then again, helping to find kidnapped children and avoiding any more blackmail seemed infinitely more preferable. She went on in a low voice, "When he was, well, dying, he was always cheerful, a bit like your friend there. Well, my dad was like that, except once when he thought no one could see. That one time, he looked sad."

"Molly," Holmes sighed.

She folded her arms, looking levelly at him. "You look sad when you think _he_ can't see you." And, as if she'd commanded it, he looked up from the microscope and glanced at Watson, who was himself rather oblivious to their convo. "Are you all right?" she asked him. His eyes swung back to her, but she interrupted him before he could answer, "And if you say yes or fine, I'll punch you in the face. Especially if you're looking sad when you think nobody can see you."

He frowned. "But you can see me."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not your friend, so it doesn't matter." But she looked away, because this was the first time she was saying anything nice to this man, and now she was going to place herself on his side, not Moriarty's. "But if you want me to be, your friend, I mean, I will," she stuttered, suddenly unsure of herself. "If you want."

"If I want?" he stared at her, as if she's grown two extra heads and five extra arms.

Now she looked at him, straight on. "Or if you need. That makes more sense. I'll be your friend _only_ if you need me, because I doubt you'd _want_ me as your friend." Now her cocky smile slid back onto her face. "I'm gonna go out and get something decent to eat. You two lock up before you get into your trouble, or I'll have your heads."

After a few hours, Molly scans the rise and fall of Holmes and Watson. First, with their helping the police find the kidnapped kids, only to hear some time later that the media (and apparently the police) declared Holmes a fake and that he was the one who kidnapped the kids in the first place, and apparently, he's on the run now, with or without Watson, depending on the tabloid. She rolled her eyes. New Scotland's full of idiots if they think that man could be arsed to fake every stupid thing he's done over the years, she frowned as she grumbled inwardly, and so is the media. She switched off the lights from the office, sighed heavily, and started to walk out of the lab.

"You're wrong, you know," a voice says from the darkness as she opened the door.

She gasps, spinning towards the voice. "Dammit!" she glared as the door shut, surprised that she had her head on enough not to say his name. "What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed.

He continues on, as if he didn't hear her. "You _do_ matter. You've always mattered, and I've always trusted you, even if you didn't think so."

Molly gave him a half-smile. "What the hell have you got yourself into, Sherlock Holmes?"

It was hard to see in the half-light, but a corner of his mouth went up at his full name. "But you're right. I think I'm going to die," he said calmly, walking towards her.

She stared at him, and he stared right back, although much closer than she thought was necessary. In another life, I could fall in love with those pale eyes and that thin face, she thought absently, feeling her stomach drop without permission, but I would never be here with him like this if I was. "So, what do you want from me?" she asked, surprised that her voice is still firm.

"You've been reading the news," he said, and she nodded. "Then you know I want a friend." And now he's right in front of her.

She smiled briefly. "No, you idiot, what you _need_ is a friend. But thanks, anyways." And she grabbed him by the hand and out of the light.

Later, Molly's still at St. Bart's, but she's not in the lab. No, she left Holmes to wait for Watson there while she was busy making preparations. Holmes had wanted to do everything, but she'd nearly slapped him silly. He'd made the unfortunate remark about "you would've gotten along great with Irene" and she left in a huff towards the morgue, only to realize moments later that that's what he'd wanted all along. Stupid git.

Well, not entirely. After all, he'd told her to look for a man who'd recently been killed who looked very like him, saying it was probably the same man who kidnapped the children and killed to tie up loose ends. When she found him among the recently dead, his hair dyed blonde and labeled a John Doe, she shook her head. It was one of the newbies who tagged him, he wouldn't have known who Holmes was, and definitely wouldn't have put the two and two together. He looked close enough like Holmes to be a relation, more so than that Mycroft Holmes. As per instructions, she re-dyed his hair, and it was eerie to see the resemblance. She was about to text him, but remembered that he didn't want to be distracted while talking with Watson, no, John. So she went about getting things ready for Plan B. Neither of them wanted it to come down to Plan B, but at least they'd be ready. She hoped.

Once things were in place, it was past midnight, and she yawned. Nothing yet from Holmes, which meant nothing yet from Moriarty. Yawning again, she set her alarm for 8 A.M. optimistically, pulled out a folding cot from the closet, and pulled a blanket over herself. It wasn't the first time she'd be sleeping near a corpse, but she hoped for Holmes' sake it would be the last, or she'd make him the corpse.

It seemed like only half an hour later (but was actually morning) that she received the terse text "He's on roof – SH". She yawned, stretched, and dressed the body. It was nice and pliable now, the rigor mortis having left it a couple of hours ago, and she made it a point to blow some cigarette smoke over it. Sure, she knew Holmes was quitting, but she knew a smoker when she saw one, and it covered the corpse smell temporarily. She undid the locks on the gurney wheels, then she pushed the body out towards the loading elevator. When she's a floor away from the roof, she pushes the damn gurney down the corridor, the sheet covering the body. Then she gets a text. "PLAN B" it says. "Oh, sh," she silences herself when she sees a janitor tipping his hat at her. Dammit.

So she mass texts her coworkers, who'd been there since 11 P.M. when she'd called them. Some were in it for the scandal, like Meena, the newbies were in it out of boredom. I'd hate to think what they'd do if I was on the wrong side, she thought flippantly, and hauled the body off the gurney and up the stairs.

When Holmes, no, Sherlock, looked up from Moriarty's body, his eyes widened just a fraction. Molly did the same when she saw the dead man on the ground, blood pooling under his head and brain splatter on the ground over his head like an exclamation mark. "Dammit," she said out loud.

"Time for our magic trick," Sherlock said briefly, and she nodded. She laid the body on the sheet and started to pull it, keeping as low to the ground as possible. When she's in position, Sherlock steps on the ledge, looks down, and hits speed dial on his mobile phone. She hears him talking to Wat – no, John, and it honestly sounds like he's going to kill himself. She wonders for a moment what would've happened if she wasn't here, would he actually try to kill himself? When he says the key words, that's when the trick happens. Sherlock keeps talking, but the corpse is on the ledge now, Molly boosting the dead man up from where she's at, controlling him like a marionette. When she hears him sniffle, she looks at sharply. He's crying, actually crying. She feels her own eyes tearing up, and this wasn't even meant for her, it's meant for John, for Lestrade, for the landlady called Mrs. Hudson (but even she could hear from that brief update last night that he cared for her like she was his own mother).

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock says, and she lowers the body's arm to drop the prop, puts it into a posture of flight, and releases the body from its controls when Sherlock nudges her. She doesn't see it, but Meena, and the others are there to do crowd control, tell her later that it looked beautiful as it went down, almost as if it were flying for a moment. One of the boys from Sherlock's disputed homeless network mows down John on his way, disorienting the man to ensure his lack of questioning. Molly and Sherlock, now wrapped up in a sheet and on the gurney, replacing his own body double, and head down to the morgue via the loading elevator.

Meena and the others meet them there several minutes later with another gurney, this one bearing Sherlock's double. "Your friend is a very determined man," Molly's friend narrowed her eyes at the living man on the gurney. "I had to pry his fingers off the body, and Josh here had to help me pull him off before the shock finally kicked in. Good job on the body, it even sustained post-mortem bleeding and trauma."

"Thanks," Molly nodded to Meena and her boyfriend, whose eyes widened comically. She says 'thanks' once in a while, doesn't she? Guess not, Molly sighed inwardly, since the others likewise looked gobsmacked. Then she frowned. "All right, drinks are on me, you gits," she growled, and her coworkers cheered. As Sherlock grinned at her, she glowered at him. "I hope you're happy," she grumbled, "I have to bribe everyone expensively, thanks to you."

Sherlock is now clad in blue hospital scrubs, his distinctive hair hidden by the surgical cap. "You are magnificent," he beamed, and the newbies laughed. She promised herself she'd punch them all later, but only after they'd all gotten enough drinks down their system so they couldn't positively identify her as their assailant. Then he hugged her impulsively and gave her a quick peck on the forehead, which somehow sent her revenge fantasy flying out the window. "Thank you!"

She froze, staring up at him. "What-?" For some reason, his actions did not compute. "Why did you do that?"

His smile slid into something less manic and more sympathetic. "Drinks are on me," he said, pulling out a wad of money, sending everyone into another round of cheers. "Never let it be said that I didn't know how to thank people who effectively and publicly killed me off!" he smiled at everyone.

Now she unfroze, her lips forming into a familiar smirk. "You are sick man, Sherlock Holmes."

He shook his head. "He's dead," the living dead man said, while the others raced out with his money to buy as much alcohol as they could.

"Right, so who am I talking to?" Molly folded her arms.

He just looked at her, then smiled a familiar smile, one she hadn't seen in a while. "Eugene Hooper," he said, "thank you again, Molly." The bastard who looked up her father waved at her, then pulled up the surgical mask and sailed out, hopefully never to be seen again.

And when the doors closed, Molly leaned against the counter, smiling so hard it hurt, but crying so much her eyes and nose ran. She wasn't sure why, but she gave up reasoning anything to do with the man who used to be Sherlock Holmes, and continued to cry and smile until she couldn't any more. That's when she washed up, dried her face, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. "Goodbye," she said, and shook her head. When she came out, her coworkers were back with the drinks, and she joined them in getting utterly and thoroughly piss-drunk.

THE END


End file.
